Misled Youth
by sunhai guy
Summary: A son of the gods whose habits are taboo recounts his life before camp and questions Western Civilization, and his alignment with the gods. Rated M for language, violence and drug/alcohol use.


Prologue

I was raised to be normal. I went to church, learned the birds and the bees (the one you hear from your parents AND the one you hear about in fifth grade). I was told evolution is wrong and I was told to vote Republican. I was taught that communism is slavery and only America is truly free. I was told the lie that every child is told, that when I grow up, I can be whatever I want to be. I know it's a lie, because the Fates are something that cannot be controlled. I am who I am, and it's not who my family would have wanted me to be. So many of the values they taught me conflicted with my own. So many of the beliefs they tried to instill in me conflicted with my own.

I suppose, by society's standards, you could call me a "misled youth." In an entirely different sense, you'd be right.

My name is Nethaniel Kyle Bleu. I'm sixteen years old, and I'm from South Carolina. I never liked it there. I never liked the kids, who knew only football and sex. I didn't like the elderly, who thought children should be seen and not heard. I didn't like the politicians, who swore that a harmless plant was a gateway to a self-destructive lifestyle. I didn't know it then, and I don't know it now, but I think it may have been that harmless plant that kept me safe for so much of my life.

I was always an activist as a kid. I was the one that would pick a fight with another kid if he kicked a stray dog. I was the one that stood up for someone being picked on. After all, I was the one being picked on myself for the longest time. The only thing that seemed to help me as a kid was writing, as hard as it was. I'm dyslexic, but I love to read and write. Weird, I know. But I enjoyed writing, sometimes regardless of genre. I wrote prose and poetry, some of which could even have been lyrics.

I also love music. I sing in the shower. I play the guitar. I got my first pair of drumsticks after a day in music class in third grade. I begged my mother to get me some, until one day she came home with a pair of Pulse drumsticks. They were only four bucks, but I didn't know that, and it wouldn't have mattered anyways.

The guitar, however, was a more interesting event. I got it when I was nine, from a person I'd never met. I was playing at a park with some other kids in the neighborhood at a park one day, and the man stopped me as I left. Familiar as he seemed, he was a stranger. My mom always told me not to talk to strangers, so I found it strange she didn't freak out when I got the guitar.

The previous owner was a guy about nineteen years old, sitting on the hood of his red Camaro. He was pretty tall, with a well established tan and sandy blonde hair about the same color as my own hanging just over his eyes. He looked at me and said, "Hey, kid. You look like a musical type to me."

I had looked back at him, stunned. "How would you know? Who are you?"

"Don't worry about all that," He laughed. "Just someone who recognizes a future musician, trying to pawn some of my junk off on someone else." He got off the hood of his car and opened the back door. I took a step back. I was prepared to run if he offered me a seat, but he didn't. He reemerged with an acoustic guitar that was old and beat up. It had seen much use. It had an "A" in between two of the frets, and the fret marker inlays had little suns on them. There was a signature on it near the soundhole, but being dyslexic, I couldn't make it out. I could tell the first letter was an "H" but that was about it.

"You're giving me this?" I asked. "I don't have any money…"

"Don't worry, little man," He laughed. "It's was a gift from my brother a long time ago, but I don't have any use for it now. I get the feeling you'll go far with it. Here, there's a little more."

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pick. It also had an "A" stamped into the middle. It was a dull metallic brown, like it was stamped out of bronze. The other side had an unusually detailed engraving of nine beautiful women clad in ancient robes.

"You're…just giving me these?" I asked in surprise.

"Yup," He smiled. As he did, the very sun itself seemed to get brighter, and what few clouds were in the sky that day disappeared. "See those nine ladies? Those are the Muses. The ancient Greeks believed they were the source of all inspiration that came through the hearts and minds of Man. It's always been a bit of a good luck charm, maybe it will be an inspiration to you too. But I've been here too long; it's high time I go. My dad'll fry me if I don't get moving. It's been nice, kid. See ya 'round."

With that, he got back into the driver's seat of his Camaro and closed the door. I looked to him with appreciation, and said, "Thanks!" But I don't think he heard me; His engine had revved and he peeled away from the curb. As he did, the sun seemed to dim back to normal.

I went home that day, guitar over my shoulder, pick in my hand. When my mother saw it (and like I said, I swore she'd freak), she gasped, but took a deep breath. "Did you say thank you?" was all she said.

"I tried," I responded, "but he left pretty fast."

"I see. Well, take good care of it, okay?"

From that day on I learned to play the guitar. I taught myself, learning a chord at a time. Most times I didn't even use the pick, but just having it on me seemed to fill me with inspiration. You'd think I'd lose something so special eventually, right? Wrong. There were times I swore I'd misplaced it. Gym class, lunch, getting held up by bullies for lunch money, etc. But sure enough, anytime I thought I'd lost it, I'd find it again. In my pocket, on my bedside table, even stuck in the strings of the guitar the man had given me. Sometimes I would eventually decide that I had never had it on me to begin with, but there were days where I swore it would come back to me when I lost it. Who would've figured that was the case?

A lot of different musical styles appealed to me, for different reasons. Mainly, I enjoyed lyrics. I enjoyed deciphering what kind of people certain music appealed to, what kind of lives they might lead. My ears heard many genres every day, and little by little I learned the dreams of the musicians, their desires, their lives.

It was in my sixth grade year that my music helped change the course of my life, for better or worse.

As was only natural, I joined the middle school band. It was in that class that I met Thisbe, and through her, Orpheus. I didn't know it, but they'd save my life someday, quite a few times.

I don't know for sure, but the first time they saved my life might just be the Monday after the first time I went to Orpheus's house. It was the first time I went to school stoned. And it definitely wasn't the last.

That weekend was the first experience I had with the herb, which according to Orpheus, was a sacred plant, that was protected by the gods. I didn't believe that. I'd always found it hard to believe in a God, let alone an entire family of them, controlling nature and the forces thereof.

Thisbe and I went to Orpheus's house one Saturday. They said it was music stuff. When I said I had a guitar and I'd been playing a while, Orpheus insisted I bring it. We went through the fence by the house to the shed in the back yard. The doorway was covered in a heavy curtain. There was a sign above the door, with strange markings on it, like an ancient language. Don't ask me why, but I could tell it said "Orpheus, Son of Calliope." Weird, huh?

Orpheus held the sheet/door open and said, "Welcome to_ sp__í__ti tou Orf__é__a._" How did I know that meant 'Orpheus's place?' Who knows?

I stepped in. The lighting was dim, just a single fluorescent light on the ceiling. The furnishings consisted of two somewhat ratty, but undeniably comfortable looking couches and a big LA-Z-BOY recliner. A box fan was strung up between two braces on the ceiling in such a manner that it could be slid across the ceiling between the two couches. In the corner by the left couch, there was a mini-fridge with a TV on it. In the other corner was a five-piece set of drums with a hi-hat and a crash-ride, and a large decal of a lyre on the bass drum. In between them was a bedside table with a DVD player on top of it.

I plopped down on the couch nearest the fridge. I was no stranger to an unkempt environment, and I certainly didn't mind, either. It gave it a sort of DIY feel. Being raised in a nice-ish house by a family who always wanted better things than what they had, while having friends whose families did without nice things, helped give me an appreciation for necessities. I didn't like nice things, I liked functional things. The stained, ripped, somewhat broken couch I sat on now was much more comfortable than what I had at home. And in the end, I figured, comfort is more important that aesthetics. Why spend extra money on something fancy if the basics are good enough?

Thisbe came in and sat on the couch across from me. She had to adjust her auburn hair to see in the dim conditions, but she still deftly maneuvered the room and its contents; she had clearly been here before. She looked really pretty in that light, like I'd never noticed before. But that's another story.

Orpheus came in behind her, and took a seat in his recliner. He kicked back, and said, "So, Nethaniel, I hear you play the guitar." He said this like I wasn't the one who told him. "Let's hear something."

"What you wanna hear?" I responded, pulling the guitar off of my back. Sitting with it strapped to my back had proven uncomfortable.

"Start classical," he responded.

I took the bronze pick out of the strings and played a nameless concerto. I played about three four measure phrases before Orpheus stopped me. He was leaning in and squinting a bit, looking at the instrument.

"Can I hold that a second?" He asked.

I nodded, placed the pick back into the strings and held up the instrument. He took it off my hands gently before taking a seat by Thisbe. He observed it reverently, occasionally whispering to her, before he looked back up at me.

"Pretty nice, it's a vintage Gibson," He started. "I was wondering, do you know what this signature says?"

"No idea," I replied. "I'm dyslexic. All I can make out is the 'H'."

"It says Hermes," He told me. "Must be a stage name of some sort."

"Maybe," I sighed. "I got it free from a teenager a few years back."

"Did you know," He began, speaking like he was a teacher, "Hermes is the name of one of the Greek gods. He invented the lyre, forefather of the guitar." He looked at the drum kit beside him, then back to the guitar. "He gave the lyre to his brother, Apollo, god of the sun and music, as a gift and an apology for stealing his sacred cattle." He showed me the "A" on the fret board and the little sun markers.

"You trying to say this is Apollo's guitar?" I asked sarcastically. "Seriously?"

"Nah, prob'ly just a huge coincidence," Orpheus sighed. He passed me the guitar back, taking the pick from the strings first. "This pick also has an 'A' on it. And an engraving of the nine muses. That seems too big to be a coincidence. This guy must love Greek…mythology." He struggled with that last part. "What did he look like?"

"Tall, blonde, drove a red sports car," I responded.

"Hmm. Interesting," he mused. "Do me a favor? Play Auld Lang Syne." He passed the pick to me.

I nodded and played a few bars. The room got quiet when I was done.

"Okay…" he breathed deep. "Do it again. Pretend we're not here, and play like you mean it."

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began to play. I went a few bars, before I lost track of what I was supposed to be doing. I played a variant, accented more chords and added more grandeur to each crescendo. The chords I played mimicked my thoughts, and I was more in tune with my music than ever before. Lost in the music, I didn't notice that Thisbe and Orpheus had gotten out of their seats and were looking outside. When I stopped, wind that wasn't blowing before I started began to die down. The brightness of the sun receded as well.

"I like that," Was all Orpheus said as he went back to his seat on the recliner. He took his MP3 player from his pocket and turned it to a song, handing the earbuds to me. "Listen and play this guitar track as best you can. Do what you did before, and let your emotions guide you."

I put the buds in my ears and listened to the music. I'd heard the song before on a Nickelodeon movie from the 90s. The intro was full of horns over the guitar, before the guitar part changed into something more difficult: The offbeat upstrokes of traditional ska guitar. The strokes were syncopated and muted mid-strum, into staccato chords. I did my best to put the brassline out of my mind. I listened and memorized the guitar in the verse and chorus, before asking him to start it over.

I played with the music as best I could, and tried to pour my being into replicating what I heard, but I couldn't entirely focus when the words started flowing.

_It's time to put hard times behind_

_Get all the bad things off your mind,_

_He's feelin' good, she's feellin' good, we're feelin good, yeah_

_Just hangin' out , just havin' fun, we're number one_

_Just hangin' out, just havin fun_

By the end of the first chorus, I felt Thisbe's hand on my shoulder. She pulled an earbud out and told me I could stop. The sun was bright again outside, what little shined through the corners of the sheet covering the doorway was brightening the room.

I put the guitar down against the couch and sat back. I rolled up the wires around the MP3 player and reached out to hand it to Orpheus. He took it as he exhaled, releasing a cloud of smoke.

Weed. Mary Jane. Chronic. Shibby. There are hundreds of names for the contents of the cigarillo Orpheus now held between his fingers. But I'd never heard what he said when I asked, "What's that?"

"A gift from the Muses," He responded. "Or maybe Dionysus, god of wine, grapes, parties, madness, and all things luxurious and fine. Maybe even Demeter, goddess of harvest. Who knows?"

"Uh…..huh?" I responded.

"Cannabis," he laughed. "Maybe a gift from all the gods."

"Isn't that illegal?" was all I could ask.

"Yeah," he laughed more. "But so is swimming at the Greenhole, and we do that all the time." He extended his hand, cigarillo between his fingers. "Want?"

I stood up, preparing to leave. I didn't want to be pressured.

"Nah, nah," He laughed. "Don't worry. We're still gonna play music. That was the reason we got together. Don't have to do anything you don't wanna do."

I sat back down, still uncomfortable. "My mom says that it's bad for you," I said, embarrassed. _Is that the best I can think of?_

"Well, it isn't exactly _healthy,_" He said, pulling his hand back and taking another tiny drag, "But neither is smoking a cigarette. In fact, smoking cigarettes is far worse for you than this. Cigarettes aren't just tobacco. They're full of additives. Addictants added by the corporations of western civilization, to keep people buying more. This, on the other hand, is one hundred percent natural. Only the finest fresh imports from Jamaica."

He offered again silently. I passed.

"Suit yourself," He said, passing it instead to Thisbe. It kind of shocked me that she accepted it and took a heavy hit before passing back to Orpheus. He took another one before holding it out to me again. I raised a hand in refusal. He shrugged and passed it back to Thisbe.

It was weird to me, seeing someone do something that I'd been raised to believe was a major health hazard. I had never believed that myself, but just the same; I had no proof or experience to the contrary. But, like other kids, I was curious…

When Orpheus took his next hit, he was prepared to pass to Thisbe when I held out my hand.

"You sure?" He asked, slowly holding it out to me. "You don't have to…"

I took it from his hand and put it up to my lips. I inhaled, preparing for whatever may happen. It started out just like breathing through a straw. Soon my lungs got warm, and before long, I was having a coughing fit.

They both laughed. "It happens," Thisbe choked. She finally calmed down for a second. "Do me a favor, force a burp."

I did. When I exhaled, more smoke came out. They burst back into laughter.

"Hey, 'ey li'l girl," A voice laughed. "Thisbe, star. I an' I wanna hear some music-a. Seen? Crank up the tele sounds." I was surprised to see that it was Orpheus.

"What was that?" I asked as Thisbe turned on the TV and put a disc into the DVD player.

"Sorry, man," Orpheus laughed. "I'm from Jamaica. The accent comes back when I get excited."

The DVD player whirred and soon there was smooth dub reggae coming from the speakers. Orpheus began to sing along with Damian Marley, while making a wrist motion between me and Thisbe. I'd forgotten to pass. I gave her the cigarillo. By the time it was gone, I was taking lung-filling hits with minimal coughing.

Song after song after song passed. We played along with a few, Thisbe laughing and drumming on her thighs, myself on guitar, Orpheus singing along, his voice sometimes indistinguishable from Junior Gong's.

When the CD ended, he put a new one in and pulled out a bottle with a wrench socket pierced through the cap. It was a bowl, he told me, and he showed me how he made it. He showed me how it worked and we talked physics for a second, using the transparent bottle to show me the science of smoke. He even let me leave with the bottle and a couple bowlpacks of his "gift of the Muses."

That's how I had the means to go to school stoned the next day. Early morning, before the sun had risen, while waiting on the bus, I went out the second floor window onto the roof of the house and sat there with the bowl he gave me. I lit it and pulled, watching as the smoke filled the bottle, before taking my thumb off the carb and cleared it. It took a second breath to clear it completely. I smoked until the ashes pulled through, then climbed back into the unfinished top floor of the house. I grabbed my pack and was headed down the stairs when my mom stopped me.

"Why were you upstairs this early?" She inquired. I hid the bottle in my hoodie pocket.

"Stars are still out," I replied, trying with all my being to stay calm.

She looked at me for a bit. "Okay," she finally sighed. "Well, bus will be here any second. Hurry on."

"Alright," I said, "Gotta grab one more thing." I ran to my room, and hid the bottle as best I could before heading to school.

I was in my band class that morning, standing behind a set of timpani during a standard rehearsal when all hell prepared to break loose.

We had a substitute teacher. She looked positively ancient. She introduced herself to the class as Mrs. Newman. She apparently substituted at the high school regularly, but she was specially requested by our teacher to be our sub for the day. She was rather amicable, even letting us go to the water fountain whenever we wanted. In band we weren't allowed any drinks other than water. Bad for the instruments. But being percussion, I could drink soda so long as I kept it hidden. Thisbe wasn't so lucky. She was a flute, sitting in the front row, doing homework from other classes while other kids practiced their parts for the upcoming Christmas concert.

I still wasn't all there. I was drinking a Pepsi in the back of the room, enjoying my own little world, bearing down on a book to write some ideas down for some new poetry. I barely heard when the teacher asked rather politely to speak to Thisbe in the hall.

But it wasn't long before I ran out of soda. The teacher was nowhere to be seen. Still, I figured, she'd been giving us unlimited breaks, so I just headed out myself. I saw the teacher and Thisbe to my left, but I didn't mind them. I was going right.

I could have sworn I heard her say something along the lines of, "Did I say you could leave the classroom?"

"I'm just filling my bottle with water. Back soon," I responded. Maybe. I could've just thought it without saying it. She might not have even said anything to me to begin with. I didn't care. I was suffering from serious cottonmouth.

The fountain was just around another corner, next to the rest rooms. I filled my bottle first, then stooped to take a drink. Did I hear Thisbe yell? Probably not. Maybe the screeching, pterodactyl-like battle cry was in my head too. What I saw when I went back toward the classroom might have been in my head too, but I don't know. I've thought I've heard things that weren't real before, but I'd never hallucinated before. It certainly wasn't an effect of my intoxicants, but what I saw couldn't have possibly been real.

My vision was dragging, lagging. And it may have been a banner blowing because of a draft. Maybe Thisbe was as stoned as I was. But there, in front of her, loomed a large leathery looking bat-like beast. Weirder, it had Mrs. Newman's face. I _had_ to be seeing things.

But Thisbe was freaking, too, so maybe it wasn't just me. But maybe she wasn't there either?

The beast screeched. "Half-blood! You should've known you couldn't hide among the mortals! You die here!"

"Whoa, shiiiiiiiiiiiit," I started to laugh to myself. I was conditioned not to curse, living with parents like mine, but if I said this one just slipped, I'd be a liar.

The monster seemed to notice me just then (if it was really even there to begin with). "A witness, eh?" She hissed. "You die first, mortal!"

The bat-thing flew down at me, claws extended (maybe). Another "Oh shiiit" escaped me as I tried to flee and ended up tripping and falling, leading to a little more laughing. That's when I saw Orpheus coming around the corner (at least I'm pretty sure), a pair of drumsticks in his left hand, folded tip-to-tail in his hand. He yelled something (Cantaloupe?) and the tips of the sticks (may have) glowed brightly as they (apparently) extended and transformed into large bronze curves, and the electric-taped sticks themselves seemed to (maybe) meld together into one, forming what appeared to be a large recurve bow with no string. The curved bronze parts appeared to be bladed.

"Nethaniel!" Orpheus shouted. "The pick!"

"Huh..?" I was still giggling. Checking my pocket I found the bronze pick that I didn't remember bringing to school. As I pulled it out, the monster (that I still wasn't sure existed) seemed to flinch at the sight of the pick. I held it out to Orpheus, who seemed to want me to throw it. Screw that, I'd thought. I'm comfortable down here.

He rolled his eyes as he ran to me and reached down to get the pick. He held it up to the middle of the bow-thing (or maybe it was just drumsticks?) and pulled back. As he did, an arrow shaft seemed to appear in his hand (although not really because that's not possible, right?) and came all the way down to the tail, which he nocked in an invisible bowstring and pulled back. The blades of the bow seemed to bend as if he was drawing a bow (crazy, right?) and he released, sending the pick/arrow through the monster's throat (at least to what I could see.) In a flash, it was gone, and dust rained from its previous location all over Thisbe and me.

Orpheus helped me up. "What did you see?" He asked.

I laughed some more. "Some crazy shit," I laughed. "I want some more of this stuff."

He grunted something in an ancient language. Sounded like cursing to me. "Like what? Just tell me what you remember… Don't worry if you can't remember."

"Some really crazy bat lady," I laughed. "Is there something else in this stuff?"

"Maybe…" He sighed, sounding relieved. I had no idea why. "But this stuff seems too much for you. I'm re-upping soon. You can have some then."

We walked back into class as Thisbe and I dusted ourselves off. I had _no_ idea what was on me but I didn't like my hallucinations bleeding dust on me. Talk about weird.

Orpheus held up his hand and said, "Class. We're starting sectionals in just a moment. Anyone who doesn't already have their instruments out, please go get them." He headed off to the instrument storage room to retrieve his trumpet.

"Where's the teacher?" I asked. "She was just in the hall, talking to Thisbe…"

"Mrs. Tucker's not here today," One of the clarinets said.

"Well duh," I laughed. "The sub. She was _just_ here."

"Orpheus is our sub," She responded. "He's dividing us into sectionals for individual help now."

"Huh…?" I was (understandably) confused. "Mrs. Newman? She was here like, a minute ago."

"Who's Mrs Newman?" She responded, before shaking her head in irritation. "Just, go to your section before I get Orpheus on you."

"Orpheus was with me," I responded. "Yo Orpheus!"

He walked to the podium, trumpet in hand. "Yeah, Nethaniel?"

"Where's Mrs. Newman?"

"…Who?"

"The sub. Mrs. Newman. Y'know, the one I thought was a crazy bat-monster." I probably shouldn't be talking about hallucinations in the classroom where people didn't know I was baked.

"Nethaniel… Just go sit down. I'll be with the percussion in a moment."

"What about your sticks?" I said, reaching for the drumstick extending from his pocket. He slapped my hand before he stood up, towering over me.

"Rasclot, move on wi' all that nonsense, 'fore I'mma go _**BOOM**_ on y'head! Real badman like. G'wan wi' that riffraff." He went as far as to put his hand on the sticks. Whether what I saw before was real or in my head, I certainly didn't want to get hit with a drumstick. He took a deep breath, then quietly just said, "You need to be more careful. If someone sees you geeking out in the halls you're in serious shit. Go have a seat; I'll be with percussion soon."

"…Okay," I sighed. I left the podium and went back to my seat. I swore there was a sub, a legitimate one. Orpheus was in eighth grade, he should've been in whatever class he was in this period. But I just took his advice and sat down behind the timpani.

That was the only strange event that occurred in my school that year, but it wasn't the last one I experienced there. The following year, there was an explosion in the cafeteria that I could have sworn involved a dragon, and the next year there was a time Thisbe got suspended for getting in a fight with a girl that I may have mistakenly thought had the lower body of a snake.

Then finally, I was in high school. Not much changed. I got taller, but not much. I was still one of the shortest in my grade. I continued to pursue music, found my niche and even joined a ska band playing guitar. Of course, my guitar was acoustic, so I had to borrow one from one of my bandmates, but I still played with my bronze pick. I came home after shows, fedora reeking of stale beer (other people's beer, of course). I didn't hear of any strange occurrences during my first year of high school. The one that changed my life forever occurred during my sophomore year.

I was gearing up for a performance at the local music bar. A cellophane of bud concealed in the seams of my denim vest and checkerboard fedora on my head, I helped the drummer set up his kit onstage. After the last of his cymbals had been passed to him, I fixed my strap and took my place next to my amp onstage, bottle of water sitting on top of it. I didn't have to hold my position very long before sound check. The sound guy gave me a cue and I played four bars of "In My Grave" as he adjusted the volume to his taste, then called on the bassist, who played a slap groove. He gave our vocalist a cue and he said random things ("Gibberish Gibraltar. Scorsese tribute. Orion's lady parts.") until the sound guy suggested he shut up. The drummer had to test three microphones individually, before having the master volume adjusted.

Finally, the frontman took the mic stand and declared, "I'm Taco Rob and these are the Fence Jumpers, and we approve this message." With a four-stroke count off from the drummer, we opened our show. I closed my eyes, and let the simple three-chord progression take over.

"_Thirty lives, ain't lost one yet, got nothing to lose and blood to let,"_

I looked out over the crowd. The pit was circling. Beer was splattering on the floor, little bits at a time.

"_Gonna drink some beer and pitch a fit. Got thirty lives, gonna break some shit."_

The three-chord hardcore gave way to thrash-ska upstrokes as the crowd's moshers became the crowd's dancers. But one person in the audience wasn't moving. Or drinking. Or talking.

"_Sitting in a circle and lighting up the dank, passing GB's clockwise and going down by rank,"_

This old lady looked entirely out of place. She was beyond ancient. She should've been calling us hooligans, or swinging her purse at us. But she just stared at me, and if looks could kill, I'd be beyond dead.

"_Pushing Gatorade bottles into milk jugs, I got thirty lives, gonna smoke some drugs."_

She wanted to rectify that "I'm not dead" problem as soon as possible.


End file.
